


Pie

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is a Sweetheart, Dean Loves Pie, Fluff, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:10:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is alone in the bunker, bored out of his skull, and looking for something to do. Making pie is the logical, practical answer. Apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pie

Of all the human emotions Cas struggled with, boredom was the one he really, really did not know how to deal with. Anger – Sam had shown him the beauty of the treadmill and the punchbag in their makeshift gym. Hunger – both Sam and Dean has shown him the many ways to deal with that, and whilst it wasn't strictly an emotion, Dean told him really, really it was. Desire – that was a very enjoyable ongoing lesson that Dean was more than happy to help Cas with. Over, and over. And over some more.

But right now, he was alone. No one to suggest things to do, or just to talk to. Right now, he was supposed to be 'recovering'. And he was bored, as Dean so delightfully phrased it, 'out of his skull'.

He'd read every book in the bunker, watched all the Netflix he could stomach, and currently was pacing every passage way the bunker could offer him. Library. Spare rooms. Shower block.

Right now, he found himself in the kitchen.

When they'd found the bunker and Dean had discovered – rediscovered – a latent love of cooking, the kitchen had received the most attention. Even Dean's beloved bedroom had come second to that: baking sheets. Spatulas. All those things you never knew you needed until you suddenly had the urge to bake a batch of cookies – which Dean had had one day.

Cas ran an inexperienced hand over a set of spoons and picked up a whisk, frowning at the whirls and spirals of its head. He turned to the laptop balanced on the surface beside him and opened Google Images, He'd learnt the phrase 'utensil' was useful for many unidentifiable objects, and his search for 'kitchen utensil' gave him the answer that he needed.

In what Dean referred to as a light bulb moment, Cas discovered a way to alleviate his boredom. Since Dean loved cooking, he too, he reasoned, could learn to love cooking. Dean loved pie, and so the natural, logical step for Cas to take next would be to make pie. He could do that. He'd heard Dean say cooking was just a case of following a simple set of instructions. He could do that for Dean.

For a moment, Cas remembered the happy look Dean got every time he had pie. He wanted to replicate that. He wanted to be the one to put that smile on his face. His pie-smile face. True, his memories told him he'd put many types of smiles on Dean's face, but the pie-smile? That was something left to achieve.

Determination in his eyes, Cas opened up another tab on the laptop, typing in 'how to make pie'. Chicken? Pumpkin? Steak? The resultant search brought up more pages than he knew what to do with and he frowned; was he to make a sweet pie or a meat pie?

Cas remembered the look on Dean's face the last time he'd rammed a forkful of apple pie into his mouth, and the noises that followed. Cas liked those noises, he liked them a lot. Cas adjusted his search to 'how to make apple pie' and found more confusion. It was bewildering how many different options there were. Original, basic, Mom's, lattice... why were there so many kinds of the same thing?

Cas settled on one that said '[ ultimate apple pie ](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/2052/ultimate-apple-pie)' that described the pie as 'a traditional, comforting dish'. Exactly what he wanted to make for Dean when he and Sam returned home from their latest case. They were due home that evening if everything went to plan, and, according to the recipe, the pie would be ready in 2 and a half hours. He had hours to get this right. He took comfort from the fact that it was 'moderately easy' to make, and smirked at the promise that the pie 'serves 8'. Clearly whoever wrote this recipe had never met Dean Winchester on a pie mission. He outright laughed at the icons underneath suggesting he 'share' – again, never met Dean Winchester. Not when it came to pie.

Cas took off his shirt, letting it drop on to a chair, and rolled up the long sleeved t shirt past his elbows, washing his hands in the sink as he'd seen Dean do many times before he'd started cooking.

And so, to bake.

Skipping past the nutrition advice and not lingering over Sam's lectures on a balanced diet playing on loop in his head, he started reading the method and then frowned. Didn't he need ingredients? His eyes caught the 'view shopping list' to the left: good. Now he would know what he needed.

_1kg Bramley apples_

_140g golden caster sugar_

_½ tsp cinnamon_

These measurements sounded odd, even to his ears, so he stopped. He checked another recipe which called for cups. Cups? Cups that they drank their morning coffee out of? Surely that couldn't be right, they came in all different sizes. Dean seemed to favour a bottle green one with a really thick handle, maybe he could use that?

But.

Didn't Dean refer to cups when he cooked? What was this _g_ , and _tsp_? He did not like abbreviations. Things were given a name for a reason; why did they insist on shortening them? He was sure that, just because he was now human, he would never resort to this stupid trend of shortening everything for convenience. He promised himself that he wouldn't.

Another sigh. Another Google search. This one told him he was following a recipe from the UK. Cas shoved the laptop back in annoyance and ran a hand through his hair. Why did they all have to be so different? Geographically speaking there was no explanation for all the variations throughout the world; it was just too tiny to have so many differences. Why did they do this to themselves? More importantly, how was he supposed to work with these measurements? Did he convert the 'grams' to the cups? Did the grams go in the cups? What if they weren't exact? Wouldn't that affect the quality of the pie?

He could, he reasoned, just find another recipe that called for cups: he could see the stack of silver things piled together on the side, and that would be the easiest thing. But for some reason, he was comfortable with this recipe. It had lured him in, and he did not like to be beaten. Stubbornness was a human trait that he'd assumed without a conscious thought.

A rummage in the cupboards and a lot of muttering and tossing strange items on the floor, Cas found a set of kitchen scales. Perfect. He wiped them down, set them on the side, watching curiously to see if they would do anything by themselves.

Nothing.

Back to the list of ingredients.

_For the filling:_

_1kg Bramley apples_. Bramley? Did they have to be Bramley apples? What if he used different ones? Would they be too sweet? Not sweet enough?

Turning on his heel he scoped the kitchen; a fruit bowl to the side of the microwave had a lot of apples, a mixture of red and green. Since he was under strict instructions not to leave the bunker, he couldn't exactly be picky; these would have to do. Cas grabbed the bowl and took it over to the scales. Tilting his head to one side for a moment, he balanced the bowl on the scale. Huh. Too much.

Removing the entire bowl he noticed that the scale went below zero. He turned a knob at the back setting it back to zero. Good.

One apple. Now that's too light. Wasn't there an easier way? Two, three apples, still not quite enough. Four? Five? Six? Okay. Now that's too many.

After a good ten minutes and swapping one apple for another until he got exactly one kilogram, Cas stood back, satisfied.

What next?

 _Golden caster sugar?_ Was there a difference between that and regular sugar?

Opening and closing cupboard after cupboard, successfully locating caster sugar but no golden. Cas shrugged to himself. It couldn't be that different, right? He Googled to check: no, this would be close enough. Now. 140 grams. That couldn't be much, could it? One of the apples was 102 grams, so...

He picked up the pack and poured, jerking it back when the dial spun up to past 300g. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, he grabbed a spoon and started putting it back into the packet until it was perfectly 140 grams. Satisfied, he found a bowl and poured the sugar into that.

Cas repeated this with all of the other ingredients, working out that a _tsp_ meant a teaspoon and after a lot of Googling, what that actually meant. His frustration nearly made him give up when he realised that the butter was sticky and hard to measure out, and worse, he needed to wash the scale before he could weigh out the other ingredients having weighed the butter first.

Cas checked the time on the laptop. He'd spent an hour just measuring out ingredients. He looked at the cream splattered up the wall that had been 'softly whipped', took in the flour that stained his t shirt white, and leaned against the counter, tired. He figured that the hard part was over.

Oh Cas, poor, sweet cinnamon roll too good for this world that he was, was so very, very wrong.

Now for the method.

' _Put a layer of paper towels on a large baking sheet_.' Paper towels? Okay, he could do that.

After more minutes of discovering what an apple corer was, measuring exact 5mm wedges courtesy of a conversion table, Cas was working up a sweat. This was hard work.

The eggs proved difficult. He'd cracked them into a bowl, then had to look up what beating an egg meant. Really, Youtube could teach you anything, and after the third video he viewed, he realised that he was supposed to beat the contents of the egg, not the shell as well. He'd also had an added education of the many homonyms of 'beat', which was unexpected.

He'd enjoyed the kneading of the dough part though, that was...soothing.

Four hours later, Cas looked at his work, and saw that it was good. The pastry was perfect, the filling just the right amount of sweet, and if the rest of the kitchen looked like it had been hit by a flour tsunami, well, it was all in the name of good pie.

True. He had dough stuck to his knuckles and sticking his hair up at stranger-than-normal angles. His t shirt had splatters of apple filling all over it, congealing into the flour, and somehow this mixtures was all over his right sock. His thighs were long smudges where he'd repeatedly wiped his hands. He was pretty sure there was flour drying on his nose and under his chin, but that was okay too.

And now for the oven.

There was something satisfying about watching your creation bake. Cas sat cross legged on the flour dusted floor in front of the oven, watching the pasty pastry turn golden brown. When the timer pinged, he leaped to his feet, oven gloves at the ready. Opening the door, he experienced a sudden hot blast of air and stumbled back, wide-eyed.

When he gingerly put the finished pie on the surface, he felt a surge of pride. The final instruction was to ' _sprinkle with more sugar and serve while still warm from the oven with softly whipped cream_ ,' but he knew enough from watching Dean eat pie cold that that could wait.

And so he would wait.

Another problem with being human, Cas reflected with a yawn, was just how tiring things were, especially when you were 'under the weather'. The pie wasn't going anywhere, he reasoned, so maybe he could go and lie down for a while. Just on the couch. Only a nap.

He stepped over the empty coffee cup and plate at the side of couch and flopped down on it, wriggling until comfortable. Just a nap, he told himself, eyes shutting unwillingly. Within minutes, he was predictably asleep.

When Dean and Sam returned, many hours later, their first concern was the lack of lights. Entering the bunker in total darkness had their hunter instincts screaming _warning, warning_. They flicked the light switch, surprised to find themselves bathed in normal lighting and no back up generator kicking into life.

Cautiously shuffling their bags, pizza boxes and guns, they walked silently forward in their usual cover-my-back stance. Dean walked in front, and when Sam saw him pivot with his gun raised, open his mouth, close it with a smirk, then drop the gun to his side, he followed his lead. He watched the smile spread on Dean's face and realised this had to be something Cas-related. Only Cas made him smile like that.

Sure enough, when they entered the bigger room, there was Cas. Laid out on his back on the sofa. One hand on his stomach, the other draped on the floor, and one foot nudging at the discarded plate and cup from earlier. Fast asleep.

Sam took the pizza boxes and put them down on the table, turning away as Dean approached Cas. He stood there for a moment just watching, then leaned down, whispering, 'Cas,' softly in his ear, running a hand through his hair and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. He backed up in surprise and licked his lips. Flour?

“I'll...go get us some beer?” Sam asked, keeping his eyes firmly looking elsewhere as he left the room. Cute as Dean and Cas were, he did not like watching their reunions. Or goodbyes. Or... anything, really. Watching them was very similar to eating all the cotton candy at the fayre: sweet in the moment but that after-taste just lingered around like a bad tasting memory. There were some things a brother was not meant to see.

He walked into the kitchen and felt something crunch under foot. Light on, Sam found himself literally treading on egg shells. He started a little when he took in the kitchen. Flour. Butter. Eggs. Unidentifiable stains and smears and powders covered the floors, walls, even a spot on the ceiling, and what seemed to be abandoned bits of dough decorated the microwave, the sink, and the fridge door handle. On the kitchen counter laid one pristine, perfect-looking pie. He rescued his laptop and blew away as much flour dust as he could, grabbed three beers, and walked back out. He was not cleaning up that mess, no way in hell.

He heard mumbling on his return; the words 'cooking' and 'pie' and 'confusing method' he picked up, as well as the mirth in Dean's answers. Dean sat on the edge of the couch still leaning over Cas, looking at him in adoration and poking at the various stains that covered Cas.

“I hear we have pie, Sammy.”

“Ugh, yeah. There is definitely pie.”

Dean turned at Sam's voice and raised an eyebrow.

Sam smiled, shook his head, and turned to open the pizza boxes. “Hungry, Cas?”

Cas sniffed and sat up. “I am. I smell... pepperoni?”

Dean looked over at Sam in pride, and Sam tried to roll his eyes at that, he really did, but it was just... beyond him in that moment.

Cas and Dean shifted to join Sam at the table and over pizza and beer, they filled him in on their hunt. He told them about the research he'd done, and it wasn't until they'd finished eating that they remembered the pie waiting in the kitchen.

Dean clapped his hands and set off for the kitchen.

Sam waited for the, 'What the-' and laughed as Dean clearly reached the kitchen. He waited, hearing Dean open cupboards, the clatter of plates, the grating of cutlery. More beer being taken from the fridge.

He returned, fully armed, balancing the pie on top of the plates. Sam's eyes met Dean's and they smiled; Dean would clear the kitchen, Sam was pretty sure he'd not even mention to Cas that the downside of baking was that you actually had to clean up after yourself.

Cas shifted nervously in his seat; the pie looked just like the picture but what if it didn't taste good? What would Dean do? He watched as Dean cut three slices and plated up. Held a breath as Dean stuck a fork in the tip of the pie and raised it slowly to his mouth. He chewed. He closed his eyes and muttered, 'Damn,' under his breath.

'That's some good pie, Cas.'

Smiles all round.

“Did you not want the softly whipped cream?” Cas asked with a frown.

“It's good as it is, Cas. Perfect even.”

“I second that, Cas. It's really good.” Sam smiled in appreciation and Cas felt his face glow a little, digging into his own pie.

Many hours later, Cas lay on Dean's chest, hand idly padding at his side as they tried to regain their breath. Dean looked down at the mop of hair, smirking.

“So. You some master baker now, Cas?”

Dean felt Cas smile into his skin but knew his half-arsed joke would have gone straight over Cas' head.

“It was merely an experiment. I find cooking to be quite...tiring.”

Dean bit down on his lip, holding in the laugh there; he did not want Cas to see the amusement on his face. “Well. Maybe I can teach you a few short cuts for next time. You know. The basics?”

Cas pressed his lips down lightly on Dean's ribcage in thought. “I think I would like that, Dean.”

“Know what else I need to teach you?”

This time Cas raised his head to stare at him. “But you said I'd gotten better with my fingers. I did exactly what you told me, and I pushed-”

“No, no, not that. That's good, we're good on that.” Dean grinned; this really did not need to be so funny and there was absolutely no reason for him to be giggling like a high school kid in sex ed, but the look on Cas' face sometimes was just too precious not to make him laugh.

“Cooking related. I need to teach you something cooking related.”

Dean felt Cas pull away a little from him and raised an eyebrow in question.

“You are not coming anywhere near me with one of those whisks, Dean.” Which is precisely when Dean punched out a laugh that made Cas' eyes widen and him pull back even further.

“Not... not a whisk. We'll leave the whisk in the kitchen, okay?” Dean brought a hand up to his face to wipe away the laughter-induced tears. It really wasn't even that funny, but Cas just had a way with... he had Cas ways. That was all.

“I'm talking about cleaning up.”

Cas looked down at where their bodies joined, tackily. He shifted to move, saying, “Oh. Soft cloth run under the hot tap, we should at your-”

“No!” Dean gripped his arm to prevent him from moving. “No, Cas, not that kind of cleaning!” Seriously, had Dean's one track mind managed to corrupt Cas so much that his every thought went straight to everything sex-related? Then he started worrying to himself that perhaps Cas thought it was his job to clean them up all the time. Which is totally wasn't, this was a joint- it was an equal- surely Cas didn't think that-

 _Way to go off topic_ , Dean thought, as he pulled Cas up a little to wrap his arms around him, grin still in place.

“Alright.” Time for a change of tactics. “You know how in Hogwarts, the kids never clean up 'cos there's house elves?”

“Of course, Dean. The house elves represent slavery in modern society and-”

“I know.” Dean reached out a hand to stop him. “I'm all signed up for S.P.E.W. I get it, okay?”

Cas looked down uncertainly, watching as Dean absently thumbed his way across Cas' knuckles.

“You do not like Harry Potter. You told me.”

“Doesn't mean I haven't read them all, does it? Anyway. What my point is, is that. Magical as this bunker is at times? We sure as hell don't have any house elves living here to clean up our mess.”

The kitchen. Now Cas remembered the kitchen. He'd forgotten the part about cleaning up, but now he remembered that Dean had said if you don't soak certain things immediately it was a bitch to get them clean. He dropped his head back down on Dean with a defeated groan.

“Being human is incredibly arduous.”

Dean shifted them a little and brought the blanket up to cover them both, before leaning a kiss down into Cas' hair.

“It can be. It can also be mindblowingly good, right Cas?”

“If you tell me we don't have to clean up this instant, perhaps.” Cas pressed himself into Dean in a gesture that was part affection, part refusal to move. Which of course, just made Dean smile all the wider.

“We'll clean up in the morning, okay Cas?”

  
  



End file.
